So as I close up.
I have two more poems.
Over much of that pandemic, I have had a gift
to work alongside heroes, colleagues, friends.
Carmen Giménez and Farid Matuk, we
decided to do something that I thought would never happen.
And that was retranslated and republish,
through Noemi Press, "Akrílika," written by Juan Felipe Herrera.
So for much of the pandemic, we have
been translating the poems he wrote
in Spanish between essentially 1978 and 1981
and then trying to figure out how
to do that in the 21st century, but also exploring his archive,
learning and learning and hearing
him give and give to us.
It's been an honor.
So I want to read a poem from that I translated.
But this is a Juan Felipe poem.
So that means there's going to be some involvement from you.
Because there's always involvement from you
when you're working with Juan Felipe.
So I'm going to divide the room into two parts.
So if you're on this side of the camera, I want you to say,
"it is."
So if I raise my hand over here, you will all say--
It is.
And on this side of the camera, when I raise my hand,
I want you to say.
the Earth.
OK?
So let's do one practice before I start.
It is.
The Earth.
OK.
So there's not a part yet.
When I turn my page, there's going to be some parts.
So for now, just relax.
[LAUGHTER]
Earth song for the campesinos of Las Cabanas, El Salvador
and for Phillippe Bourgois.
It is the Earth that growls and cuts
with the teeth and eyes and cosmic claws of a midnight
jaguar.
The pharaoh and his trench militia and death
candied chest.
It is the Earth that exposes truth
with neon borealis and birds and bodies laid
bare between mean mugs and molten jaw,
the snitch in his pipeline digits
in colonizer clothes and sweatshop labor.
It is the Earth, a ride or die for down women
and marching men with basins and connotations
with salt and rage.
It is the Earth that decides the new orchards, the razors
of blooms, of meat, the cheese, the skin
chills, the rhyming rattler and fire-breathing guerrilla war,
and snuffing out the plague the web labyrinth, the fake tower.
It is the Earth that snaps red whips and gogo gadget
bodies, unending fingers and invisible limbs that
swing and snap the last altar, the white lie, the voice box.
And the blade of the general, the CEO of the salaried scab,
it is the Earth with its sorrel, its eggs, its seed that
spreads its honey and sweet and releases the rain
and cleanses with its heat.
It is the Earth that IDs the formation of jets,
the obelisk of atrophy and chrome,
the trenches of commerce and mountains
of munitions of mercenaries, flag of leaflet, debris,
and wrath at the heart of the encampment,
the tongue of the US president forking a mucus of oil.
Earth, deliver the women of your blood like sons.
The labors of your limbs like lightning.
The guerillas of your mountains like tigers.
Amid the gentrified streets, the allies of fear,
the refugee camps of Honduras, the barrios of Guatemala,
the jails of Argentina, the lock of the lakes of Chiapas,
the districts of El Salvador, the avenues of Chile,
the briars of Jamaica, the hurricanes of Haiti,
the luminous rainforest of Brazil,
the humid moonlight of South Africa, the burning, the dying.
To build an eruption of joy.
To build a galaxy of liberation.
To build a chorus of embrace.
It is--
The Earth.
It is.
The Earth.
It is the Earth.
The Earth.
It is.
It is the Earth.
Earth, Earth, Earth, Earth.
The Earth.
It is.
The Earth.
It is.
The Earth.
It is.
The Earth.
It is the Earth.
It is the Earth that perennials.
[APPLAUSE]